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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030824">The Pied Piper of the Night City</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratzinger/pseuds/Ratzinger'>Ratzinger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Needle's Eye of Time [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Casual Elven Racism, Creepy Romantic, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Hedonism, Post-Books, Posthuman Future, Pre-Games, Soft Cyberpunk, Xenophilia, Xenophobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:21:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030824</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratzinger/pseuds/Ratzinger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Let them chase her in the shadows of the city, try and hold onto her, guide her – she will dance on whether they leave or stay. Let them follow her and the music inside her head, bewitched and enhcanted. She wants the night, and all it has to offer, all to herself. And she can have it here, where the lonely and the holy come to meet.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Avallac'h | Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Needle's Eye of Time [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655209</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Pied Piper of the Night City</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a gentle rain downtown.</p><p>She has been wandering from district to district, exploring aimlessly after dropping off the package: walking, occasionally hitching a ride, and then walking again. It is getting late and the endless stream of crowds under the neon shades of the night has changed its face somewhat.</p><p>Today there are fires in the streets, right here, in one of the centres of the sprawling city where the buildings rise the highest as a reminder of a time when this place did not belong to the people yet. It still really does not – she can hear sirens in the distance – but for the moment it looks almost like it does, and that’s good enough for her, since she is only passing through. There is electricity in the air, and passion and music, and she is drawn to the fires around which the people dance. It could be Beltane if it were not November and if there wasn’t a tangible undercurrent of danger to the grinning faces, painted lips, and razor-sharp eyes that gleam with wetness when they are real and with lens-polish when they are not. True blasphemy – she likes it.</p><p>She sneaks a bottle off a slow giant who’s engaged in conversation at the street food stall that’s been revamped into a kind of makeshift bar, and disappears into the crowd. Surprised by how strong the alcohol is, making her seriously question the recipes of Mahakam, she takes another swig for good measure before letting the carafe drop. A woman with short, indigo hair and neat, little gill implants on both sides of her slender neck throws hers into the fire - alongside many others whom the fancy has taken. She smiles at her knowingly. The flames erupt to the joy of the dancers and a buzz runs down Ciri’s spine; she returns the smile quickly and takes a left.</p><p> </p><p>The colours of the falling night become moodier and the music becomes louder, faster, more incoherent in a mixture of recordings that drone and beat down upon the doors of her heart. It drizzles and the fumes of the fires dizzy the mind, yet nobody cares. She lets the heady mix of noise and emotion take her by the hand and pull her in, and she laughs as she mixes and mingles with people in colourful outfits boasting odd gear, eye-catching piercings and just fabulous jewellery – both men and women! She wants them and they want her. <em>Everything</em> feels effortless in this exciting new world.</p><p>Manoeuvring between warm bodies, heady with lust for life and desire for each other, she thinks she can really be anyone for once; just pretend a little, and try it out when a handsome stranger touches her elbow and wedges in-between her and the redhead who has been holding her captive so far. Let them chase her in the shadows of the city, try and hold onto her, guide her – she will dance on whether they leave or stay. Let them follow her and the music inside her head, bewitched and enhcanted. She wants the night, and all it has to offer, all to herself; and she can have it here, where the lonely and the holy come to meet.</p><p>And why not after all?</p><p>She will walk in someone else’s shoes for a while, speak someone else’s words, and feel free and unrestrained before she abandons it all again. Like a demon in the dark. <em>This</em> right here is what destiny is made of, she wants to tell him – these moments she chooses to lose herself in. <em>But he would never come here</em>, she thinks, even though she briefly imagines catching a glimpse of his tall and slender figure in the crowd, unmistakable for her no matter the time and place. And it sows the seeds of challenge in her heart.</p><p> </p><p>Until, above the ocean of space and light, she catches the rich, wind-chime melodies of familiar pipes.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>He sets the beloved instrument aside, staring at the steel silhouette of the city that carves itself through the smoke like a carcass brimming with a million void fires.</p><p>A carcass deeming not even with cockroaches but with a plague. A virus of 13.3 billion that has constructed this buzzing, chiming, banal and noxious world, overflowing with live matter that devours itself from second to second, and where everything – <em>everything </em>– is freakishly distinctive, while still nothing is. A world where the light of the stars was far outshone by the synthetic glow, captured within infinitely similar, gargantuan golems of steel and glass that had hooked their claws into the skies above and pulled them down to their level. The handiwork of shrewd monkey inventors. And he, a magician, is sitting on top the wreckage of the recently exploded façade of one of these steel giants with darkness above him and the sky at his feet, playing his pipes and finding no comfort in his own music in all this noise.</p><p>Everything was upside down in this world.</p><p> </p><p>The local authorities had hastily sealed the place up for further investigation it seems, because much of what remained intact after the fires of whatever tore itself through the multi-floored apartment’s outer walls had been left untouched. Besides expensive fabrics, ruined murals on ceilings, various frivolous interior design elements, and the castrated, potted greenery, there were even remains of art to be found here; of abstract and suggestive variety. Art, and the history of simulacrum technology. Whoever owned the place had vain, luxurious tastes in short, and that suited his preferences, though he did not particularly <em>like</em> anything that surrounded him in this world at any given point in time. He was still very curious though, and simply had to know.</p><p>So he pressed some buttons to hear what the place sounded like, and if it did at all anymore.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Forgotten souls in suburban city lights<br/>
You lose your sense of time, where are you now?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A loud crash. Pivoting around he meets a face that is doing its best to hide all evidence of mischief and devilry, but the spilt red still washes down the parquetry. Ah, she had finally gotten bored then.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Don’t you realize your rage has gone too far?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>‘Found something?’</p><p>She covers her mouth in shameless, feigned embarrassment, and nods. There is not a shred of an apology in her insolent eyes.</p><p>‘You wouldn’t want it,’ she dismisses him, all farce and parody. ‘Especially now that I’ve had some; poison chalices and all that.’ How violently self-deprecating and proud. And how little care she has.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>The truth behind the bars lies poisoning your brain.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She takes to the music instantly, chirping happily as she gives herself over to the melody as if he wasn’t there, as if she had not just smashed a bottle of very fine liqueur all over the place. Of course it doesn't matter – when had the integrity of places and people she storms through ever bothered her?</p><p>It begins imperceptibly, almost without any warning at all. Humming to herself with her eyes closed, turning and stepping to the thudding beat of the electric bass, she veers off balance every now and again, though that only seems to add to her merriment.</p><p>He blinks.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Listen to what I say<br/>
If you are in the streets of time counting the hours<br/>
You must listen and learn the secrets of flowers</em>
</p><p> </p><p>In the faint glow of the artificial light of gigantic billboards above the streets, Ciri dances to her own heart’s delight. Just as indulgently as by the street fires, though far removed from the desperation of the animals now. A whirl of ash and mulberry, tempestuous and lively. He notices her hair has come loose; it curls around her flushed neck, wild and unruly where wind and rain have visited it, and yet it remains very inviting. He gets the sudden urge to touch her, run his fingers up the back of her neck and hear her make the happy, surprised noise again. Would she dance to him like this if he played to her?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>You look still confused, the whirlwinds shake your head<br/>
Like turbulence in the air, you wonder who you are</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sparkling glass crackles under her heels, but the Swallow steps on, andante, swinging from one masticated wall to another as he watches. Not one would dare challenge her in the midst of all this impromptu pleasure anyhow, and in the corner of her eye, he catches the carefree, mocking look she is sending him. The temptation to look inside her mind grows too great to resist.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>There is no one around</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He walks through spilled drink, kicking aside the shattered glass. Catching her mid twirl he takes her hand, squeezing softly, and draws her into a different kind of dance. One he would have taught her eventually had she remained with them. The music changes at the wave of his hand and the girl squeals in surprise, shooting him an astonished look. Then bursts into laughter – openly and easily.</p><p>It is quite intolerable – this savage playfulness. He would much prefer she sulked and drew away when he interrupts her drunken revelry, for her embarrassment continues to offer him some kind of perverse, sadistic pleasure. It also makes it easier to remember that she is only a silly child, a wild thing that makes up with self-abandon what she lacks in thoughtfulness and grace. Instead, he stares, taken aback and distracted by her unexpected reaction that does not conform to his fantasies.</p><p> </p><p><em>Try to understand<br/>
</em> <em>No need to pretend</em></p><p> </p><p>She slips from his arms, just a little, and invites him to come after her and meld the intent behind his steps with hers. Accommodate her and learn her. Share in her little dance with her. Thus, he bows to her extravagantly, as is befitting of him before the princess of time and space. Oh, how very familiar she feels. Her pulse rapid as a bird’s and her mind swirling with desire, challenge, and simple, shameless joy. Taking her by the waist, he discovers that he does not altogether mind learning from her tonight in this strange upside down world. They have time.</p><p>For who would find them here? No one - he has made sure of that.</p><p><em>She is not going anywhere</em>, he thinks, as he pursues the rare happiness of her large, emerald eyes over the broken shards hiding underneath, onto which spill her intoxication and his obsession. He will not let anyone snatch her from him; will not release her this time.</p><p>He wants so very many things with her, and there will be time for that. Tonight though, under artificial lights, above red blood beating hearts, he lets her lead him in this dance and forget about Destiny despite holding hands with it. His poisoned chalice. His little Lara.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>No need to pretend</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Forgive me, I don't usually do "songfics", but the temptation was too great.</p><p>Inspiration: Lots of silly pop and electronic music. E.g. The Midnight - Shadows; Laura - Moonwalk; Ben Prunty's FTL OST. And this illustration (https://i.redd.it/7iaqj4n4s1k41.png), which, somebody pointed out, is a mix between Geralt and Avallac'h, and I agree.<br/>Lyrics: Laura - Sunflowers</p><p>The dancing motif emerges from myths again. Fae love to dance but dancing with the fae is invariably risky to humans. What about vice versa?<br/>Thoughts welcome!<br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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